


We Make Our Own Thrones

by TrenchcoatsandMisery



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Asha shames Jon, But only inside, Cause she knows Theons trying, Everyone is Dead, F/M, FUCKING RAMSAY, Fluff and Angst, He doesn't need your help JON, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, M/M, Murder, Poor Theon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Ramsays dogs are good, Rickon Lives, That's a lie, Theon is badass, Three eyed raven - Freeform, bran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 04:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18541843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatsandMisery/pseuds/TrenchcoatsandMisery
Summary: Theon has broken though not in the way Ramsay expected and reclaimed winterfell. Jon has lost too much and with the news that Rickon lives, held at Winterfell, decides he will not lose anymore. Asha remembers her brother and decides that no kraken should die far from the sea and launches a rescue, though Theon no longer needs rescuing.Featuring broken but badass Theon, Ramsays dogs and Asha and jon learning never to underestimate theon again. A little bit of gay, a lot of feels and Theon rescuing himself from ramsay but not quite from  himself





	1. What is dead may never Die

It’s been months since the master took him, yet it has only just occurred to him that no one is coming. Somehow between the touch of the master’s knife, the cruel caress of his hands, the poisoned words in his ear, Theon (“Reek” a voice whispers. It sounds like the master.) had believed someone was coming. Someone, somewhere, would care enough to look for the person who had been Theon Greyjoy. Surrounded by sleeping dogs (worth more than him in every way, his masters girls higher then scum like him who only existed because the Master willed it) staring into a puddle of piss (not his own, he struggles with that now, but a creature like him does not deserve comfort), running damaged hands over damaged skin he knows that Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, is dead. A hand rises to grasp at brittle white hair, his once lean frame shaking so hard he thinks his bones may snap, Reeks chest rising and falling and pain like an animal clawing its way through his chest making his vision go spotty. (He’s nothing, no one’s coming, no one is there, but the Master is here, the master will keephimlovehimhurthim, the Master-) A fist slams into piss, the image of the broken man exploding as it splashes around him. Ramsay. His name is fucking Ramsay, not Master. And he did this to him. He stills and sits up, looking around his prison. Not Master, not Bolton, not an omnipotent god but a bastard called Ramsay Snow. The bastard who ruined him, paraded him around, provided a knife to shave “his lordship” with no fear of disobedience. The knife is still in his pocket, it’s weight hefty enough, its edge sharp and strong (take it, end this, end you). He could close his eyes and simply disappear. He wonders if the drowned gods would still let him enter their hall now he was not a man, or if the few times he prayed by the heart tree would be enough to pledge himself to Robb’s gods. Robb. He'd laughed when he'd first seen Robb praying, had mocked him for his greenland gods. But it was him who should have been praying, for what would come, the choices he'd make before he even considered what they would mean. Memories of the Starks are a double edged sword, but he enjoys the pain, enjoys the reminder of what he has become and what he has been through. His hand tightens around the blade and as the blood (so, so red. Did it look like this when they opened Robb’s throat?) drip onto the dirty hay beneath him, onto the rags the bastard convinced him was all he was worth, a smile curls the edges of his lips. (End him.)

When he stands, straight-backed with a steeled look in his eyes, the hound's eyes track his movements. A long time ago the bastard had told him that they could smell fear, smell betrayal, that the bitches would rip his new toy apart at the first sign of resistance (These were the early days when Theon Greyjoy heirtotheironislands still lived, where he had not yet learned his lesson that an ironborn was nothing when exposed to wildfire. Only sand can smother wildfire, if you can get close enough without burning up in its flames. But he is already burnt, a ghost, and this fire has burned for too long.) When he pats the nearest one of the head it does not attack but leans into his touch. Its ribs are showing through its fur and he recognises something broken in its gaze. Something a little too close to the man in the puddles eyes.

“Don’t worry girls. I’ll feed you soon”

A laugh bubbles up from his chest as dogs wag their tails at him. He is not the only thing down here in the dark, not the only thing that the bastard has taken a knife too in pursuit of obedience. As he exits his cage (The door stands unlocked, not even latched. Why lock up tame animals? Not when you’ve already caged them within there minds where the chance of escape is small. But the bastard was right. He’s not a man or even an animal. He’s a monster.) he closes the door behind him and the dogs begin to growl. 

“No one's coming for us. But that’s okay. Because we’re going to save ourselves and I won’t leave you behind.”

He was no longer Theon Greyjoy, nor was he Reek. He was one of the dead and it was time for him to rise.


	2. Dark wings, Better words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon POV.

The boy who stands- sits- in front of him is not the Bran he once knew. This boy is swaddled with furs to fend against the chill, but his eyes themselves are as colder then any winter Jon has ever known. The initial joy he’d felt upon learning Bran was alive had faded, not that he was not thankful, but the boys monotone voice and detached personality had led Jon to limit their conversations. The only times they spoke now were short, as Jon was never sure of what to say and Bran’s words always seemed to have a double meaning, something only Bran himself knew. Today though it was necessary, the scroll of parchment in his hands more important than his uneasiness around his younger brother.

“Bolton is dead. Rickon is alive. Winterfell is yours if you wish to claim it.”

Three short sentences that had hit Jon like a sledgehammer but drew only a small sound of thought from Bran. The raven had come that morning, the bird from Winterfell’s own rookery. The writing itself was poor quality, as if scrawled hastily or with some difficulty, and the paper itself was speckled with red. When he considered how it had gotten there his thoughts drifted to Rickon, bleeding in the place of his birth, and he’d had to shake himself out of the despair that had seized his heart. He handed the paper to Bran who inspected it carefully, his face never changing as his finger grazed the bloodstained corner. 

“This is Theon Greyjoy’s handwriting.”

He couldn’t help the bark of laughter that came out of him, cruel and disbelieving.

“Impossible.”

And it was. The turncloak had been killed when the Bolton’s had reclaimed Winterfell for the Starks, and if not, Theon’s handwriting had had the same effortless grace as their writer did. The boy had been all smooth movements and wild gestures, a head tilted up in laughter, a strong arm pulling back a bowstring, the gentle curve of his lips when he smiled with joy and not mocking. The flicks and swirls of his words on paper had portrayed that. These words though were sharp and severe, the writing instrument pushed deep into the paper. He opened his mouth to tell Bran this but was silenced with a look that Jon had seen far too much, a look that told him he knew nothing. 

“You forget I am the three-eyed raven, Jon. I have seen everything that has happened, everything that is happening and everything that will happen. This letter as written by Theon and Rickon is alive.”

These were the moments that Jon hated the most. Bran spoke with a sense of authority and finality that a boy should not have, the constant reference to the three-eyed raven putting up a barrier whenever Jon sought to speak to his brother. He had not been there when Robb had died, killed by his own honour and the disloyalty of the Freys, but he had not realised he’d lost another brother during his time at the wall. He still had one brother left, Rickon, and if both Bran and the letter said that he was still alive then he was going to find him. 

“Edd! Ready a horse for me.”

His steward gave a curt nod before departing and Jon turned his attention back to Bran.

“I will find our brother and return him. If Theon is alive I will end him. Stay here.”

He picked up Longclaw and placed it in his hilt and took the letter from Bran's hand and placed it in his coat. Bran watched as he left the room, whispering softly as the door closed.

“You can try. But Krakens are hard to kill. Ramsay Bolton learned that the hard way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up- Asha!


	3. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha remembers, though she'd rather forget.

She dreams of him every night, though the dreams vary. Sometimes they are children, standing on a beach, his hand in hers and his cheeks stained in tears as she tells him that their brothers will mock him until he proves he is Ironborn. In others, she is standing next to their father as he pleads with them to lend him ships to defend the Young Wolf of the north, anger and betrayal in his eyes as they both look away. The worst is when she is again holding that damn box, knowing exactly what is inside it and yet powerless to stop as she opens the lid. She drinks and fucks and chases those memories away during the day but her nights belong to her little brother, the memory of his face, the quiet boy and the cocky youth.

It is not like it’s her fault he was captured. She could have told him that father would never agree to supply the stark boy with ships and that capturing one Greenland hold was not going to win his love. But no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that he did this to himself, every night she dreams of him and every morn she wakes up with tear tracks on her face. She was there when her father threw the box in the ocean, stood by when he refused to yield to the Bolton’s. It wasn’t her place to intervene, yet even now when their father is dead she has done nothing. She takes a long hard swig of rum and lays down, whispering a prayer to the drowned gods as she closes her eyes.

“Please, not tonight.”

(This dream feels different. She’s standing in a courtyard, can feel the chill of northern air and the ground beneath her toes. She is surrounded by bodies. Most have arrows sticking out of them, or have had their throats opened before being dropped carelessly to the ground, their deaths swift and efficient. As she kneels by one of them, still gurgling as blood bubbles from his windpipe, she wipes the blood from his breastplate and curses as the blood catches on the engraving of a flayed man. The same symbol carved on the wooden box and signed at the bottom of the taunting letter. Bolton. A sudden clearing of a throat startles her and she springs to her feet, turning to see a dark-haired boy standing next to her as if he just appeared by her side. Her fingers twitch as she thinks of the sword by the man's corpse but the boy lifts a finger towards the wall and she finds her gaze rising with it. Drenched in blood and armed with a bow a man stands still as a statue at the edge of the wall, looking down at the courtyard as wind whips at his sides. He is dressed in rags and seems to struggle as he raises the bow, arm trembling as he pulls back the string, but the arrow he fires flies strong and true. Straight towards Asha. She goes to move a second too late, though the arrow passes through her as if she is mist and straight into the neck of a Bolton soldier approaching from behind her. The bloodied man swipes a hand through a mess of unkempt hair and it’s THEON, whitehaired with a haunted look in his eyes, but she knows that face anywhere. It’s been haunting her for weeks.

“He needs you Asha Greyjoy. He has changed his destiny but that doesn’t mean he’s safe yet.”

She had forgotten the boy by her side and turns to question him, but he is no longer there. Neither are the bodies. The world begins to fall away and-)

Asha jolts awake, her brother's name on her lips. An hour later she stands on the prow of a ship with a crew of 50 of her finest men, a course to the north mapped out and a sword dangling on her hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! The author speaking. So I've got major writers block so the next chapter might take a while to bang out. It was going to be Jon and Asha meeting, but we might take a quick peak into what's going on with Theon.
> 
> I didn't realise that the kingsroad is actually pretty straight, so jon and asha or approaching from opposite direction. This makes them meeting up along the way to winterfell difficult because its bang in the middle of the wall and the ironmans bay, so i've got to change my plan a bit.
> 
> Thanks everyone who has left Kudos. feedback is appreciated so if you have any thoughts on what you'd like to see in future chapters then just comment.


	4. Bloodshed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back with Theon and Ramsayyyy

He doesn't know where he ends and the knife begins. Bloodshed had never come easily to Theon Greyjoy, always more of a lover than a fighter, but to this new Theon, it is strangely natural. At first, it was simply because he had the element of surprise on his side, the guards outside ignoring him up until the moment he cut the throat of the first one and slid his knife between the ribs of the second one. Now fear was what kept the blood flowing, the knife swinging. Fear had lost its power over him the second he had left those kennels because he now knew that death as not the worst thing that could happen to a man. Winterfell’s occupants though… The broken thing that they had watched be made, watched be tormented and torn apart, now stood before them with a knife in his hand and someone else’s blood on his rags. Fear froze them, and by the time they started moving again, his knife was already at their throats. The thought that the last thing they’d ever see is his skeletal face makes Theon laugh, a bitter sound that echoes through the halls. Somewhere, someone blows a horn. He wonders where Ramsay is, not that it matters. As soon as he realises it is Theon that is the threat he’ll seek him out. He won’t want anyone else touching his toy.  
…………........  
Ramsay knows something is wrong, the horn made sure of that, but no one will tell him what is actually happening. Guards rush past his door every couple of minutes, the two stationed outside his door looking uneasy as they inform him that his father has ordered him to stay put. At least his servants still serve him, though his questions fall on deaf ears no matter his threats, their fear for Roose Bolton seemingly stronger than their fear for Ramsay. Their mistake. It is only when he presses his flaying knife to the runt of a serving boy’s throat that the lad squeals.

“The-The Reek, I mean milord, your servant is killing people. Winterfell is on lockdown until the guards can-“

“He’s mine. Tell the guards that. Run quick, or I’ll make sure you’ll never be able to run again.”

The blood drains from the boys face and he begins nodding furiously at Ramsay. The kid looks like he’s going to piss himself, a thought that makes Ramsay smile. The fear in the lad’s eyes grows at his lords grin, practically falling over himself to leave the room and deliver Ramsay’s message. Alone again Ramsay picks up his falchion and hangs it on his side, exiting his room. The guards look like the they might stop him for a second, but as soon as they meet his eyes the words die in their throats. Their fear sends a shiver down his spine, a pleasurable sensation that only grows as he imagines his pet’s face when he sees him. He didn’t think the shit-stain would dare try and disobey him again, but if there’s anything that Ramsay loves it’s punishing his creature. As he walks through the halls of Winterfell, guards panicked shouts leading the way, he imagines all the things he’ll do to his Reek. Remove a limb maybe, though it would make him clumsy when servicing him. Perhaps strip more flesh from his body, cutting deeper than before. An image of such clarity pushes it’s way to the front of his mind and his grin widens. Maybe pain wasn’t the right way to go, maybe kindness and forgiving would be better, before stripping his clothes and- 

He stumbles and lets out a curse as he steps straight into a puddle of blood. His boot is splattered with the congealed liquid and he let out a growl of annoyance. By the time he was finished with Reek the bitch would beg for death. The body he tripped on has been hit with an arrow, something that the arrogant boy Reek used to be before Ramsay taught him better had excelled at. As he stepped out into the courtyard he couldn’t ignore the uneasiness that settled in his stomach. There were more than a few bodies, closer to ten or fifteen, and a guard rushing past him is struck by an arrow as he passes. His eyes tracked the origin of the arrow and there he is, though Reek no longer looks like reek. The thing on the wall, that he refuses to call a man as that’s the one thing that Ramsay took from him that he can never have back, carries themselves with an air of calm. His tattered rags flapping around him in the wind, the white hair covering his eyes, it looks like an Other from his childhood stories. Reek holds a bow confidently and has it aimed straight at Ramsay.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing Reek…” 

He draws the word out and is pleased to see the creature twitch at the sound. 

“But I promise if you come down I’ll only take a hand. If you don’t, now that’ll be bad. I’ll take both arms and both legs. Won’t that be fun Reek? You can roll around and you’ll still have plenty of uses.”

It draws back the bow. Damn. He’d hoped that Reek would fall to the ground and cower like he’d done before, not that it would change anything. As soon as he’d said the second punishment, the idea had appealed to him. But Reek seemed to think he was Theon again, so threats wouldn’t work unless he could get close enough to enact them. He wanted to prove himself did he, wanted redemption, why not use that delusion against him?

“You think you’re a man now Reek? STILL DON’T HAVE THE BALLS! Won’t even fight me like a man. Come down here and face me. Face your maker Reek.”

As it makes his way down to the courtyard with a dagger clutched in his remaining appendages, Ramsay draws his sword and smirks. This’ll be fun.


	5. Strangers on a Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Asha and Jon meet and it's tense.

Asha has only met one Stark in her lifetime and that was the man they called Eddard. Eddard Stark had come to their home with the great stag Baratheon, had humiliated her father and taken her little brother. It’s unfair she thinks, that she can’t remember her dead brother's faces but she can recall with perfect clarity the grey of Lord Starks eyes as he took Theon by the shoulder, the sound of his voice as he warned Balon what would happen if there was another rebellion. She never told anyone, but weeks after she dreamt of those eyes watching her solemnly as the Stark great sword cut off her brother’s head. The man who currently has his sword at her throat has the same eyes, perhaps not the exact colour but definitely the same damn righteousness and grim determination in them. She struggles to remember the names of the Starks and the faintest memory of Theon’s voice provides.

“Robb?”

The man's eyes widen, his sword lowering a fraction. His mouth opens as if to say something, but she’s disarmed him and has a dagger at his throat before he can get it out. He growls and the sound is inhuman, more wolf than man, but then again he is a Stark. Eyes don’t lie and the Starks can’t hide from what they are. 

“Who are you?”

“Asha Greyjoy, Ironborn. And you are a Stark, though which one I am not sure.”

His eyes darken as soon as she says her name. She forgets that Theon was captured taking Winterfell, that whoever this man is he would have been raised beside Theon. 

“I’m not a Stark. I’m Jon Snow, Ned Starks bastard son. But you… You’re a Greyjoy. Do you know what your brother did to my family? He all but destroyed it. ”

His voice is low and dangerous, and Asha is very thankful she’s the one in the position of power right now. But his words anger her. Her tone is sharp and tense when she replies.

“As far as I’ve heard you did that to yourselves. Lord Stark got his head cut off for honor, not because of anything Theon did. As soon as the Old wolf was gone the rest of you fell to shambles. My brother has been captured and punished for what he did and now I am here for him.”

Snow’s face changed from a snarl to a frown. 

“You’re going to rescue him from Winterfell? By yourself?”

Asha hates this. She hates everything about this. She throws his sword to the ground and steps back towards her horse. First, her ship was damaged in a storm, half her men claimed by the sea. By the time they got to port the other half had decided it was a sign from the Stormlord that they should go back. She’d bought a horse, ridden for days with very few supplies, and the first face she sees is one of a man she is certain wants her brother dead. But he is also alone, with nothing but a handsome looking horse and an admittedly nice valyrian steel blade.

“You are alone too, and I’m assuming you intend to retake your home and kill my brother.”

The man’s face reddens and he opens his mouth to argue but she stops him.

“Do not deny it. You have a mission, as do I. I will not let you kill Theon because he is mine, heir to the iron islands and my brother. I will not let him die this far from the sea, from his home. But I will help you take Winterfell in return for his life.”

He is silent. He bends down and picks up his sword from the ground, gloved hand flexing as he grips the wolf pommel. She wonders if he is considering the odds of killing her before she kills him, wonders if he realises that they are unfortunately even. His sword hand relaxes though and he gives her a curt nod. She nods back and hopes that the wave of relief that sweeps through her doesn’t show on her face. She’s climbing onto her horse when he speaks again.

“What if he’s already dead? That we get there and Ramsay’s already killed him?”

She doesn’t tell him about the box. How she knows that whatever has happened to Theon is much worse than death. She ignores the sinking feeling in her stomach, the memory of a boy with the sea in his eyes and salt tears on his face waving at her from a boat. The memory of grey eyes, older than the ones she looks into now, watching her with pity in their depths as he takes the little boy away. 

“He isn’t. He’s Ironborn.”

And if her voice cracks when she speaks he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he mounts his horse and together they ride for Winterfell.


	6. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon muses over Theon. Asha gets the sign she's been waiting for.

He keeps catching himself watching her. He can’t seem to help it, though she’s nothing like Theon, not really. She’s hard where he’s soft, face a permanent frown instead of a permanent smirk, her words short and curt where Theon’s were poetry. But as he finds himself glancing at her as they ride side by side, he realises it’s their eyes. They both have the sea in their eyes, along with a determined look that makes it look like they’ve got something to prove. Jon remembers that look in Theon’s eyes every day he stayed at Winterfell. He thinks maybe she should know this, finds himself clearing his throat and speaking, breaking the tense silence they’d shared up to now.

“You have his eyes.”

She scoffs. 

“He has my eyes. I’m older.”

A wry smile tugs at her lips and Jon can’t seem to stop his lips curling in response. The moment doesn’t last, her smile going as quickly as it came, those sea eyes darkening like an oncoming storm. Ever since he mentioned the possibility that Theon might not be alive she has seemed withdrawn, not that he’s an expert considering this is the first time he’s met her. Theon mentioned her occasionally, though only when thoroughly inebriated and away from Robb. Those were the moments Jon cherished when Robb wasn’t there and it was just Theon, eyes shining and cheeks red from drink, smiling at _him_ and him alone. He wonders if Theon would have laughed at him if he’d known that Jon wasn’t competing for Robb’s attention. He was competing for Theon’s. 

Jon growls, gloved hand clenching and unclenching. He wishes he’d never met Asha. Before he had two goals: Take back Winterfell and save Rickon. That was it. Theon had come under taking his home back, and although he’d been unsure whether or not he’d be able to kill Theon, that had been the only option in his mind. Now though, with Asha who looked so different yet so similar to the boy he’d hoped to forget, he had promised not to kill Theon. He tried to imagine seeing Theon again, not having the morbid safety net that he was going to kill him, having to talk to him as a man instead of a boy and Theon a traitor. His stomach is in knots and he closes his eyes, horse huffing in aggravation and his stops it. Rickon. That was what he had to think of, not seeing Theon again but seeing Rickon. He hadn’t seen the boy for years, tried to imagine him surviving in Roose Bolton, no, Ramsay Bolton’s care. From what he’d heard Ramsay was unforgiving towards his prisoners, and ignoring the stab of panic he felt at the thought of Theon in his care, he comforts himself with the thought that Rickon was most likely a hostage rather than a prisoner.  
“Your brother, if he’s still alive, better be taking care of my brother.”  
Asha slows her horse and stares at him, confusion clear on her face. Jon hadn’t mentioned the raven he’d received, assuming that was why Asha had chosen now to “rescue” her brother.  
“I received a letter a ten-day ago, from someone claiming to have reclaimed Winterfell in my families name. My brother, Bran, seemed to think it was Theon.”  
From her previous confusion, he expected her to be shocked. He hadn’t expected her to beam at him, a glint in her eyes.  
“I came for my brother because I received a vision from the Drowned God. It was Theon fighting, fighting Bolton men, I thought perhaps it was a vision of what could be. This means he’s alive!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't my best chapter, but I really want to bridge the gap between the journey and arriving at Winterfell. I tried to put a little bit of gay feels in here, sorry if it's not incredibly subtle. I'm going for boyhood crush rather than they were actually involved. 
> 
> I also wrote tenday instead of week. This is a more DND thing then game of thrones (ten days makes one week hence tenday) but writing week felt wrong. Thanks if you're reading this, I'm juggling a couple of fanfictions so I'll update as soon as I take care of the others.

**Author's Note:**

> Will be more so hold on tight. Hope it was ok


End file.
